


anathema

by Xirdneth



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Canon-Typical Violence, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Gothic, M/M, Magic, Magic Murders, Masquerade Ball, Murder Tableaus, Original Character(s), Rated For Violence, Slow Burn, Vampire Hunters, Vampires, Witches, for now...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2018-12-29 19:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12092277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xirdneth/pseuds/Xirdneth
Summary: “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is the fear of the unknown.” H.P Lovecraft.Will Graham is a Hunter of legendary status, known throughout the Knowing world as one of the most terrifying Hunters on the field due to his long list of successful Hunts… and his genetic makeup. For not only is Will a Hunter of all those unholy and monstrous, he is one of them. Having retired after the discovery of his witch nature brought him nothing but horror and haunting, one particularly brutal beast makes its mark on the world and summons Will back into the field. This time, however, he has the support and assistance of Doctor Hannibal Lecter.





	1. To Cross A Gory Threshold

**T** he sky above Wolf Trap is a devastating shade of grey, the kind so bright it appears a near-blinding white. Had it not been for the sun's white-golden shape, it would be a blank slate. Jack Crawford appears positively  _holy_ in the sharp daylight. Despite the beauty of the scene, the way the light hits the halo of forest that surrounds him, Will squints in displeasure, clad only in his shirt and boxers. Though he is in a state of arguable undress, he doesn't feel naked. Rather, he feels _dread_. Jack's appearance can only mean one thing.

       “Jack.” He does everything in his power to conceal the very real bile rising in his throat, the fear colouring his mind.

       “Will.” Jack nods stoutly in response. Even through the haze of his anxiety, Will can see regret, perhaps even an apology, in the deep colour of Jack's eyes. “Get dressed. There's something you need to see.” He inhales, one long thin breath, eyes shutting for the length of it, before opening again. Raw. A look of vulnerability, no doubt as to alleviate Will of anything of the same nature. “Something I… need you to see.”

       Will swallows thickly and nods, wordless and unblinking, before turning on his heel. As he does, Winston—a charming, lovely dog he had taken in four years ago, at the very beginning of his life's nightmarish downfall—nuzzles at his palm. Some would see it as merely wanting food or attention, but Will chose to see it as comfort. As support.

       As fear.

 

*

 

The sight that waits for Will Graham is almost enough to bring him to his knees, though whether out of awe or terror is uncertain. Perhaps a fusion of both. A man, in his fifties or sixties, sits upon a throne of bodies; each corpse contorted unnaturally, some severed to allow a more coherent shape, others merely modelled and moved like pieces for a macabre puzzle. Each face is one of agony, eyes wide and glassy with death, pupils blown wide and mouths forever locked in a silent scream. The sight radiates with dark magic. No doubt resonating from his chest cavity, where the flesh covering his ribs and stomach had been pulled back like curtains to reveal a sword resting where his organs and lower ribs ought to be. The tip of the blade is piercing the man's heart, completely skewering it, though no blood gathers on the silver length of it. Will finds himself walking closer, caught in its orbit. The others—Jack Crawford, Beverly Katz, Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller—linger behind, held back by the circle of white dust no doubt fueling some unseen barrier.

       Will passes through with no issue. It senses what rests in his veins. Magic, pure and bridled and resistant to whatever enchantment is placed on the earth. It stinks of spellcraft here. Spellcraft and death, though not of decay; whatever spell this tableau was meant to fuel or cast has prevented rot from claiming the body. Everything remains fresh and red and pink. Like the man is sleeping. With his eyes shut. Without internal organs. It is no doubt a fantastic piece of magic, but it is vile. It is horrendously savage… and terribly uncommon. A level of similar sophistication and malign energies has only been apparent in one other notorious killer's tableaus: _The Chesapeake Ripper_. He doesn't have to ask to know that Jack has noticed the same. _Unlike_ Jack—he suspects—he can detect that despite the similar levels of utter cruelty and power, this is _not_ the handiwork of the Chesapeake Ripper, nor a Copycat – its design is far too unique to be a mere mimicry. It is more likely to state that it has taken _inspiration_ rather than be an act of _outright plagiarism_.

       Idly, he wonders whether the Chesapeake Ripper would agree. No doubt his ego would be unwilling to tolerate such, dare he say it, _competition_ in his domain, despite his dormancy for several years.

       Upon closer inspection, it appears that the sword's edge is not smooth and untouched, but decorated with unfamiliar sigils carved straight into the metal. He notes that the magic emanates particularly viciously from here. The source, then. 

       Jack and the others will be waiting for him to do his thing. A thing which he cannot perform with an audience. Without turning, he calls out: “I need space.”

       There's some whispers, an uttered thing that Will fails to pick up even with his heightened senses, but there is the eventual retreating footsteps as they collectively retire to Beverly's beat up van. In their absence, Will relaxes. It is awful being witnessed by others when he stands in the midst of some creature's creation. He can practically _hear_ the mental comparisons being made, especially in cases such as this, where the culprit is obviously a witch. He knows that they don't _truly_ believe him capable of something such as this—at least, he has faith in half of the group—but the mere wondering of it is enough to sting, after everything he does. It's something he shrugs off, now, both the burning feeling of their eyes on him and his lingering on the subject. He has something he needs to do. He closes his eyes.

       The pendulum swings.

 

*

 

 _He stands facing outwards, vulnerable. We are in a blank space, a white blot, shapeless and without name. He is arched. Reading, no doubt. He is the intellectual type._ **_That's why I want him_** _. He doesn't hear me until last minute, no doubt seeing me from the corner of his eye. He jolts with surprise but not with fear._ **_He knows who I am_** _. It isn't until I slam the needle, filled with a paralytic that will freeze him but not numb him, into his jugular that his eyes widen. That recognition quickly becomes terror, raw and unglazed._ **_He will feel everything I do to him_** _. This is my design._

 _I strip him of his shirt and slice his belly open with a letter opener. His letter opener. It thrills me to use his own belongings against him. His pupils dilate with agony, breath quickening. He might drown on his own saliva._ **_Can't have that_** _. I am quick in my removal of his organs, clean but not surgical; I have no medical knowledge._ **_I only know what I have read._ ** _I take them and keep them. His lower ribs take longer to work through, but I have time._ **_He lives alone_ ** _. Nobody will come for him. My sadism is not out of hatred or anger._ **_It is respect_** _. I want his acknowledgement._ **_I want him to see what I am capable of_** _. This is my design._

_The sword is an heirloom. Beloved and old. It is an honour to die by it. The death is swift and sudden, a graceful plunge deep into his heart, stopping it instantly before his organs' removal, blood loss or spit can do it. His eyes go dark with death. What a sight._

_It is time to place him on his throne. A place he deserves to be on. It is both respect and a sardonic joke: his throne is every person—that I know by name—that he has sacrificed for his purposes._ **_I admire that._ ** _They had it worse. I had ripped them apart, sever and contort them, while they were conscious but paralyzed. My collection has been growing for years now. I am ecstatic that I can finally put them to use._

_I wonder if he finds amusement or horror in his body's resting place, wherever he may be._

_I wonder if he is proud of my design._

 

*

 

When he returns to his mind it is with a gasp, the brutality ravaging his psyche. Nausea roils in his empty stomach, coupling the hunger pains quite nastily. If his stomach had any contents, he might have upchucked them right there. As it is, he steps back out of the circle as if exiting it will save him. He knows it won't. What he saw will stay with him until he has found whose mind he entered… and after then, too, he knows. He swallows down imaginary bile and walks to the van. Jack's in the passenger seat, only because it's _Beverly's_ van and not his. He opens the window, having watched Will make the walk up.

“Well?”

“It's not the Ripper.” Jack's shoulders sink, though whether it is with relief or disappointment Will is uncertain. He can't bear slipping into anybody else's mindset for even a second more.

“Someone new?”

“Someone new.”

Jack's face settles into a grim expression. Not that it had been particularly cheery before. “We'll head back to base and talk about what we know. I'll make a few calls and get these bodies identified.” Supernatural activities and the creatures that engaged in them were, surprisingly, not common knowledge to the general masses. Rather, only a select few—usually high ranking politicians and a trusted selection of doctors and medical / criminal professionals—were aware of the true horrors that occurred in their home. Some left, though such a thing could lead to a lifetime of being watched, and others stayed out of a sense of duty to the corrupted land they ruled or healed. A rarer few tried to tell others.

That never ended well.

Jack unbuckles his seat belt and moves to leave the car. Will steps back automatically, though his face crumples with a lack of understanding. “Get in the front seat,” he orders once his feet are firmly on the ground. Will obeys, still somewhat out of it—so many years of freedom from the visceral empathetic experiences had left him incredibly overwhelmed, as if it was his first time all over again—though his realization of the undercurrent of compassion in Jack's tone hits him as soon as he's buckled in. At first, he is touched. Then, he is mortified. Beverly's expression, one of open yet muted concern, only worsens the feeling.

The van's back doors open and shut as Jack gets into the back with Zeller and Price. “How bad do I look?” he asks, tone pessimistic. He stares out of the window, trying to avoid both Beverly's eyes and the tableau. It is an arduous task.

“Pretty bad,” Beverly replies, completely honest. It is a relief to be around someone who doesn't dance around words, he has to admit, but that doesn't mean the truth weighs any less on his already pounding head. Good to know that he looks as wrecked as he feels. He removes his glasses only to scrub at his face, muffling a groan. When he finally lowers them, he stares at the various air fresheners and general 'danglies' (as Beverly calls them, for some reason) that hang above the dashboard. His vision is clear, despite his lack of spectacles, due to the fact they serve only as a protective barrier. He can't be bothered re-equipping them. Besides, the absence of Beverly's gaze is felt and appreciated.

“Great,” he drawls, still fixated on the pine tree air freshener. The scent is one note off revolting and four notes past _cloying_. He can't imagine why Beverly would ever invest in one. Perhaps the van would smell considerably worse without it. The thought is haunting.

Beverly snorts as she starts the van. It is not an easy task; the van rumbles and clanks, but eventually starts with a wheezy _vroom_ of the engine. Beverly's cackle of success is quiet and to herself. If he weren't so recently traumatized, perhaps he might have laughed at it. “Are you alright?” she asks, as quiet as her laugh. She's making the effort not to be heard by the other passengers.

“I will be.” It's not a lie. It's also not true.

“I hope so.”

Beverly swirls the van to head back the path they came, returning to the warehouse the triad of Beverly, Price and Zeller dubbed 'HQ'. In the process, Will watches the tableau from the driver's window, watches how it shrinks and shrinks until it is swallowed by scenery. It remains imprinted in his mind's eye regardless. He thinks, then, of the archaic theory of retinal memory. Of last images seen before death, forever tattooed on glazed eyes.

Who would be immortalized in the Throned Man's eyes?

 

 

 


	2. The King of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will looks deeper into the motives of the killer, and finds that--disturbingly--he can't decipher everything that he needs. Alana Bloom enters the fray, concerned for his well-being after his return.

“ **H** e's not in the system.” Price's voice bounces off of the wide walls of the warehouse. They're currently in what could tentatively be called the 'laboratory', although Will finds the term to be a bit too _Frankenstein_ for his tastes. They do not create life here; they solve death. The triad get a kick out of it, though. “And nothing's turned up in recent news about missing people fitting his profile. Not many missing people at all, lately.”

         “So none of the… uh… _throne people_ are recent?” asks Zeller, though Will already knows the answer. He voices as such, coupled with a shake of his head, his fingers resting near his mouth, eyes—now protected by his trusty, if smudged, glasses—zeroed in on the Throned Man's cadaver, which lies flat on his back on the metal table. Removing the sword had been an impossible task, so it remains in its spot, still lodged in his heart. Decay has yet to come for the body.

         “No. They were… _collected_ over time. A span of years, I'd say. Maybe even edging towards a decade.”

         “You're telling me the killer's been planning this murder for a _decade_?” Jack asks.

         Will nods. “Give or take. He wanted this to be… special. He wanted him to be proud. That's why it's definitely not the Ripper,” he addends, addressing Jack directly, “there's nobody in this world that the Ripper wants to impress. Not to this extent, anyway.” His gaze returns to the body, analyzing each wrinkle of flesh. While it may not have begun to rot, there is definitely a deathly pallor. The only red that remains is his exposed insides, which remain red as a cherry skin.

         “This guy wanted Throned Guy to be proud of him?” Zeller asks, disbelieving.

         “Please, _Throned Man_ sounds much better on the tongue,” Price chides from his seat at the computer desk. From the corner of his eye, Will sees the look of half-exasperation, half-' _not okay, man_ ' Beverly shoots him. Price shrugs, unapologetic.

         Zeller rolls his eyes at Price's remark but otherwise doesn't acknowledge it. “So he figured the best way to do that was… kill him? Not very bright, this guy, is he?”

         That ignites a kindle of concepts in Will's head. “Not necessarily. He was familiar with the victim, who's some kind of intellectual figure. If he wanted to impress him, he may have had some kind of… mentor relationship with him.”

         “Intellectual figure? How'd you figure that?”

         “I just… know.”

         “How can you _possibly_ know that—oh, right.” Zeller rolls his eyes once more, though this way it's to the heavens. “Your whole witchy thing. Forgot about that for a sec.” He still appears unconvinced.

         “It's less _witchy thing_ and more just… connecting evidence. Evidence I can't explain in words. It just connects.”

         “Right. So does the mentor-student thing connect?” Will wonders if, beneath the vitriol, Zeller is perhaps genuinely curious as to how his mind works. He wouldn't be the first.

         “Oh, that was just a hunch.”

         Beverly snorts.

         Price speaks up again, having been immersed in his computer activities until now. “What he's saying might have some ground, actually. On the 'intellectual' front, anyway.”

         That gets Jack's attention, who up until this point had merely been watching Zeller and Will's interactions like a ruminating father overlooking bickering children. Likely waiting for it to run its course or heighten to an inappropriate level, in which case he'd finally intervene. “What kind of ground?”

         “This kind.” Price swivels the computer screen to face the rest of the group. On it, a design; rectangular, a man sat upon a throne, sword in hand. Though it lacks the gore, organ removal and throne made of bodies—and the fact the sword is in his hand rather than _inside him—_ it's practically a spitting image of the Throned Man's tableau.

         “It's almost exactly the same,” Beverly voices, “barring a few… details.”

         “Like the dead body chair,” Zeller agrees.

         “It's a tarot card. _King of Swords_.”

         “I've never seen that card before,” Beverly says, frowning slightly.

         “That's because it's not from the major arcana suit. That's the more famous cards. _Death, The Fool, The High Priestess_ and all that. _This_ ,” he gestures emphatically to the screen, “is minor arcana. _And_ it has just as much meaning as the major arcana cards. _Intellectual power_ and _authority_ to name a few.”

         “Good hunch,” says Zeller, addressing Will directly with the slight shift of his head, tone toeing the line between being genuinely impressed and annoyed simultaneously.

         “It's what I do.”

         “So the killer wanted the mentor to be _proud_ of his work? Despite the fact said work involved murdering him?”

         “He put years—a decade's worth—of work into this… _project_ ,” Will’s mouth screws against the word, like a bad taste left over from an unsatisfactory meal, “and he wanted acknowledgement.”

         “Is it possible the victim was a killer himself? Someone who would appreciate the sentiment? Or at the very least, understand it,” Jack suggests.

         An interesting theory. Will humours it, gaze floorward, de-constructing it and re-constructing it in his mind. However, as intriguing—and relieving—a prospect it would be, it doesn't _click_. “No.” An adjustment of his vision, re-aligning himself with the world and bringing himself out of the murky depths of his psyche. “The victim was just that. A victim. He was terrified in his last moments, not proud. Not even understanding. Just… scared.”

         “I see.”

         Words hang heavy in the dense air for moments that feel like centuries. Over and over, the Throned Man's death plays in his head, the sudden starburst of fear. The shrinking of the pupil. The increase of breath. For a moment, again, he and the killer exist simultaneously in his body: at once, his heart races with horror and excitement, palms slick and mouth dry. It is only when Beverly breaks the silence that he is ripped from his moment of synchronicity.

         “What I don't get is… why take the organs? What does the killer want to do with them?”

         “I don't know that either.” As soon as fear dissipates, frustration is quick to fill the empty space.

         “It's not uncommon for killers of this calibre to take trophies,” says Jack. At that, Will shakes his head.

         “It's not just pride. It's bigger than that. Besides, he damn near emptied the man of everything but his heart and lungs. That many trophies is a risk. He has a purpose in mind.” Disgust stains his mouth. “A spell, most likely.”

         “Like blood magic?” Beverly asks.

         “Not exactly. Blood magic is… well… _blood_ , but it never ventures into this level of brutality. This is on a whole other scale.” Magic, as he has come to learn, has no set morality; it is humans who align morality with a particular branch of magic. Those who are aware of the supernatural beings that inhabit the world tend to hold the belief that _all_ magic is the work of evil, but even those considerably more relaxed with their judgement of arcane practises tend to be of the belief that blood magic is particularly heinous. Especially considering their connections to vampires. Will disagrees, but never voices such, for he understands why they make such leaps, and who is he to judge anybody for making leaps beyond logic? “This might even be something new. Or, at the very least, something rare.”

         “Jesus Christ,” swears Zeller, “we're dealing with one hell of a sicko, then.”

         “Not just any 'sicko'.” He stares at the cadaver, its perfectly preserved condition, the way his dead eyes stare up at the ceiling. Despite all attempts to close his eyes, they refused to obey. No doubt an extension of the enchantment on him. “A brilliant one. Whoever did this… their grasp on magic is almost unparalleled by any other force.” He doesn't have to say _who_ is the only other killer who could rival such cruelty. Such… knowledge.

         “How do we catch him?” asks Jack, all business and determination. This is personal, now. This is a fledgeling Ripper. An opportunity for Jack, in his eyes, to redeem himself. Will wonders how far he is willing to go to achieve it. Wonders what the price Will himself will have to pay.

         “We get in an expert and we figure out what's written on that sword.”

         Jack nods, a firm and quick thing. “Beverly, you know what to do.”

         “On it.”

 

*

 

Doctor Alana Bloom is as lovely as the last time he saw her, all soft eyes and mouth, the dark fall of her hair endlessly graceful. The sight of her warms him. Alana is not only a renowned—as renowned as one can be in such a limited circle—expert in the supernatural, but one of the few people who Will finds himself enjoying the company of. Even after their brief stint at a relationship, and its inevitable end, there is no awkwardness; they find themselves slackening at the sight of each other, muscles unwinding and smiles, small but real, blooming on their mouth. Her lipstick, a peach colour, catches the fluorescent light.

         “It's good to see you again,” he greets as she comes closer. A closer look reveals the sadness in her eyes.

         “I would say the same, if not for the circumstances. Are you sure it's wise to be back?”

         “I have to come back. You saw the same thing I did. Do you know anybody else who could find this guy before he strikes again?”

         Her mouth folds in on itself before returning to normal, eyes downcast. “Jack and the others will find him without you. That's their job.” Her eyes meet his. “It doesn't have to be yours.”

         “I don't doubt their ability to, but you can't deny I have a certain _knack_ for this kind of thing.” A flimsy attempt at humour. Her sad, sad mouth twitches, if only to humour him. It doesn't reach her eyes.

         “That _knack_ ruined your life. God, Will, it almost killed you.”

         “But it didn't. And I recovered. I chose to come back.”

         “Jack convinced you to come back.”

         “Jack knew that I'd _want_ to come back.”

         “Why?” There it is – a glimpse into why they could never work, despite their previous affection and current care for one another. She doesn't understand him. She cares for him, but she can't comprehend him. He doesn't resent her for it. It's not like she's alone in that. “Why would you come back after all of that?”

         “Why else? To save lives.”

         Silence befalls them, one long moment of nothing as she attempts to formulate some sort of argument that will push him back into isolation, and thus, safety. He prepares himself for it, but instead she takes him off guard with a defeated sigh. “I don't want to argue with you, Will. It's been too long for that to be the first thing we do. I’m sorry.” There's a lot of weight to those two words.

         As much weight as there is to his response. “Me too.”

         Peace restored, Alana moves swiftly on to the reason of her visit. Prior to their visit, she had been studying the Throned Man's body, more specifically, the sword placed in the cavern of his corpse and the dust gathered from the crime scene. Her specialties lie in witchcraft, particularly sigils. She has often been called in to work alongside them on their ventures against murderous witches. It is also why she had been familiar with him before they had even met. Then again, it's pretty much impossible to find an expert in the arcane who _didn't_ have any clue who he was. It would be a sign of ignorance, in their field. Professional suicide. “The dust, I suspect to be bone meal. My best bet is your John Doe’s missing ribs ground up in a mortar and pestle. Beverly and the others are running the tests now, but I’m pretty certain. What I’m _not_ certain about is the sword itself. I studied it extensively, and the sigils, and while I have no doubt they're connected to dark magic,” nausea rises on her face as she recollects, in _gruesome_ detail he imagines, the tableau, “I’ve never seen them before in my life.”

         Will deflates. “That's not what I wanted to hear.”

         “ _I_ have never seen them before in my life,” she continues, peaking his interest, “but I know someone who might.”

         Will arches a brow, prompting her to continue.

         Professionalism and perennial sadness fades, replaced by a feline mischief, a sapphire glint. Her lip quirks. “...Will, have you ever been to a masquerade ball?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter! I hope that I did well in writing the characters and the very cute, yet sad, dynamic of Alana and Will. If you enjoyed this chapter, please feel free to leave a kudos and comment! They motivate me greatly to keep writing, along with my general passion for this fic and Hannibal as a series, and I love to read your thoughts! <3 
> 
> I also have a blog, @bedannigram on Tumblr, so don't be hesitant to follow / send a message / etc! 
> 
> I'm going to try and keep to a schedule, so one update per Thursday. I'll see you then!


	3. Tall and Proud and Wondrous Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Alana attend a lush masquerade ball held by the enigmatic Count Lecter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as I post this, it's just struck 1am, thus making this a Thursday. Due to my eagerness to have this chapter uploaded, partially out of sheer exhaustion and partially out of pure excitement to introduce more characters, this chapter is currently unbeta-ed. May get someone to beta it within the week? I'm not sure yet, but, I do hope you'll enjoy this chapter with any and all of its little mistakes. Your feedback has been much appreciated and a great motivator. You all make my heart warm. If you ever wish to contact me beyond this site, I'm @bedannigram on Tumblr! Come say hi! And as always, leave kudos/comments if you enjoy--you always make a difference and inspire me to keep working.

“ **I** can't believe I agreed to this.”

       The private car's interiors are red and stuffy, blacked out windows rolled up completely; the only light is amber, giving off a distinct romantic vibe, dulled only by the absolute lack of tension between the two occupants. While Will fiddles with his cuffs, gold to match the lining of his mask, Alana is relaxed, sipping at her beer like she belongs here. She must be close with the Count for him to be aware of her preference, aware enough to stock the _private car_ he sent for her and her guest with enough to last her days. Will sips on it as well; it's oaky, hints of fruit that almost dare to tip it into wine territory, but only tempt it. Something else, too, lurking beneath the surface. Something he can't put a name on. Whatever it is, it's delicious.

       Alana smiles warmly over her drink. “Neither can I. I'm surprised you have a suit.”

       He rolls his eyes are that. “I've worn a suit around you, before.” Dates and funerals alike. This suit, with its dark grey that ventures almost into blackness, matches both. The mask he now dons, one which would be full-face if not for the exposure of his lips and chin, adds an extravagance to it, rather than overshadowing it. Must be the cuff-links.

       “I assumed it was a rental.”

       “It might surprise you, but even I need a suit.” Now it is her turn to roll her eyes. She sips at her beer. Anxious fingers move from teasing the cuff-links to tugging at his collar, fiddling with his tie, a navy colour that matches the silk hankerchief—a gift from Alana—poking out of his breast pocket.

       “You don't have to keep fidgeting. You look nice. I dare say you look _dapper_.”

       “Thanks,” he says, tone dry as wine, “I don't _feel_ dapper. I feel strangled.”

       “It's a suit, Will, not a noose,” she laughs, humour on her painted mouth. Champagne lips, glossy with beer. Beneath her mask—an elegant navy half-mask, lined with silver and dotted with a crystal constellation to match her jewellery—her eye makeup is heavy, thick lashes, sparkling eyeshadow. Smokey eye, she explained to him once.

       “Yeah.” He can't delight in the same humour as that. The mention of noose only adds kindle to the fire of his anxieties. It has been years since he has dared do something so sociable, so teeming with life. Even prior to the exposee that near cost him his life, he hadn't enjoyed large gatherings. Or socializing at all, for the matter. People radiated too much information (and spoke too much bullshit) for him to ever really be comfortable around them. There are a few exceptions, of course, who he can tolerate. Alana, who, despite her occasional slip of seeing him as Other, still cares for him and views him not as something to fear, but someone who needs to be protected. Beverly, who knows and just doesn't give a shit, or so she acts. Jack, who might be the only one who doesn't underestimate him, for better or for worse. Hell, he even enjoys – to an extent – the company of Price and Zeller. Even if it isn't mutual. Frankly, this small group of people is all he is interested in having. He doubts that Count Lecter, with his private cars and masquerade balls, will be able to fit into the little world Will has crafted for himself.

       Last time someone tried to enter his world, they tore it apart. Burned it.

       He represses a shudder. Drinks his beer. Wishes it were scotch. Best to change the subject before Alana catches onto his growing fear. “The car's a bit much.”

       A _bit much_ is being kind; the man sent the two of them a damn _limousine_ , with blacked out windows to boot. It even came with a driver, who hasn't tried to interact with them once. A duty-bound woman who only provided her identity because it was required of her. _Chiyoh_ and only _Chiyoh_ had been provided. Alana seemed a bit disquieted by Chiyoh's absolute lack of desire to engage—though perhaps her black bird mask, with its hooked nose and plague doctor aesthetic had helped in that regard—but Will thanked God for it. Even respects it. He hates drivers who fill perfectly good silence with pointless small talk, prying out private details they have in no way earned the right to hear.

       Alana ponders Will's gripe, with a small, fond smile on her lips. “I suppose, but it's beautiful. He has always been a bit on the extravagant side, but he's remained generous despite it. After all, he's doing this for free,” she reminds with the raise of her eyebrow, sipping her beer. The car drives so smoothly the surface of her drink barely trembles. No threat of it spilling onto her gown.

       That little reminder does nothing to soften his distaste for the whole affair. It feels fake, a display. At worst, it feels like a gift that comes with a hefty price. A price which has not yet been revealed. He doesn't voice this particular train of thought, well aware of how paranoid he sounds. Even if he _is_ being paranoid, the arrogance of the man is no invention of his over-active psyche. It doesn't bode well for their meeting. Still, he must appease Alana, and so he offers a non-committal sound, finding some sort of positive. “The free masks are a plus.” Saved him from buying one on his own. He wouldn't even know where to start. Were there stores dedicated to them? Were would he even _find_ such a store? The thought of such a labrynthian journey to buy something for a one-night affair filled his stomach with an unspeakable dread, and in the moment, he feels an intense gratitude for the man, which is quickly smothered and pushed into the back of his mind.

       “They're gorgeous,” Alana enthuses, hand reaching to caress her own. Strings of crystals connect the mask to her head and drip down from the bottom. Each movement births a soft little rattle, a little clicking symphony of artificial stars. It goes quite nicely with her gown, a simple mermaid's tail, navy and silk. Short-sleeved and exposing her highlighter-dusted shoulders, a v-neck dip accompanied with a choker of crystals. She is a sidereal sight. “Yours looks great.”

       “Thanks. It was a hard choice picking from the _fifteen masks_ he left us.” He had went for the most simple, and the most concealing, of the masks provided: a metallic grey, the same dark shade as his suit, with long gold lashes spidering upwards and tears of ichor pouring from below. The feathers that sprouted from the side, blooming from golden edges, and towered into the sky, were a nuisance, but a tolerable one. Far preferable to the others, which he considered at best, _intense_ , and at worst, positively gaudy.

       “Like I said. _Generous_.”

 _Bragadocious_ , Will corrects, but says nothing, merely finishes off his drink. The tactile hum beneath them stills, stagnance. They must be here. The door slides open, and Chiyoh is there, in her military-esque black coat. Her buttons, silver, gleam in the evening light; the moon is out, a bright white disk.

       “You're here.”

       She watches as they leave the car. How Alana manages to make her exit so graceful despite her gown, while he trips over air, is beyond him. Diamonds catch the moonlight as her footwear peeks out, before her skirt swallows them up again. “Thank you for the ride, Chiyoh,” she says on her way out, smiling at the woman. It is not returned, but she does nod stoutly in response, expression unreadable. There is something he could envision to be off-putting about the woman, how her expression rarely changes, how her eyes are indecipherable beneath the mask, but for him, it is a brief respite. He's certain if he chose to, he could unravel that peace, easily, but decides not to. For his comfort and hers.

       He offers his own private thanks before extending an arm to Alana in light mockery of chivalry. “Shall we?”

       She accepts, sly grin on her beer-glossed mouth, and links her arm around his. “We _shall_. Getting into the spirit, are we?”

       “You could say that.” Rather, he doesn't wish to be a downer; a weight on the evening as he so often is. More often than not, he cares little about what people think about his behaviour, unless the opinions could result in a pyre, but there are a few exceptions. Alana has earned the place of an exception. Especially on a reunion like this. Hopefully she won't expect much. Gentle mockery of the whole situation is about the furthest he go. As it is, Alana seems content, glowing at his attempt at playing along. Or perhaps the alcohol.

       He redirects his gaze onto the manor and _holy fuck_ , it certainly is a manor. A Gothic behemoth, it's no wonder it's so isolated, decapitated from the rest of the world. It would tower above everything else. Here, on its cliff edge, it is free to exist on its lonesome, though it still achieves that menacing loom regardless of its surroundings. Such a titan that even the lights—which one might refer to as fairy lights, had they decorated anything else—wrapped around trees and pillars don't detract from its otherworldly aura. He can certainly appreciate the humour of such dainty decorations, coupled with the more extravagant red and gold silks connecting everything, juxtaposing something that is otherwise straight out of a _Bram Stoker_ novel.

       The humour quickly fades away, squashed by a surge of anxiety rising in his throat. People are gathered outside. Not large swarms, but clusters clinging to pillars and flower arrangements like fungi, masked and dramatic. It appears he and Alana are the outliers when it comes to their masquerade attire; everywhere he looks, there are faces covered in porcelain, crowns of feathers and curls and spikes stretching out forever, skirts that blow out like upturned cups. As they walk the path, which is cobbled and not gravel, he notes, a few turn to face him; ghastly sights they are, with their blank faces and their eyes shadowed by their mask. A night of horrors indeed. He swallows, mind racing as if each ballgoer could see through his mask, decipher his face. It's unlikely that anybody here, bar the obvious, will be familiar with the supernatural world, and unlikelier still that they would have remembered the case of Will Graham. Despite that, the fear is real. In his mouth, he tastes smoke.

       “Are you okay?”

       Alana's voice reaches into the murky waters of his mind and pulls him to the surface, if only for a moment. “Oh. Yeah.” No point in telling the truth. She'll only get stressed, mind heavy with fear, and not only would that ruin her night, but add an unneeded risk. One antsy person can get away with it, for the most part, but _two_ people rigid with fear is a cause for suspicion. That's the last thing he needs.

       She peers at him, searching, and seems to quell any desire to probe further. He relaxes, yet is disappointed; he is complex in his wants, rejecting of any attempt to know him, yet wanting nothing more than to be known, understood, _seen_. He crushes that disappointment, revelling in relief, as there is no point dwelling on something that is, quite frankly, impossible. No point wanting something he can't have. “Alright. We're going to have a great time, tonight.”

       “I'm sure we will.”

       They arrive at the door, which is— _of course—_ double-doored and two times larger than it ought to be, and guarded by a doorman.

       “Good evening, madam, sir.” He is dressed in plum and gold, a piece of breathing scenery. “May I have your names?”

       His heart lurches, but before either he or Alana can speak, another voice intervenes.

       “They are the Count's guests of honour,” says Chiyoh, sending a jolt through his body. Even Alana is taken off guard, a hand splaying against her chest in shock. She must have shadowed them, but her footsteps had been feather-light. What a strange woman.

       “I see. I will still need their names—“

       “No. You will not. Their identities are none of your concern.”

       Will sends Alana a look, but her expression is unreadable; here, the shadows eat her eyes and leave nothing for him to read but the language of her body. From what he can tell, she's as taken aback as he is.

       “...I understand. Go on ahead. My deepest apologies.” The doorman's face must be the same colour as his clothes beneath his solid gold mask, and he humbly dips as he opens the door.

       “Ah, apologies accepted.” Alana exchanges another look with Will before crossing the threshold, Will quick to follow. As the door closes, she whispers, “I have no idea what that was about.”

       “The Count has requested that your identities remain secret. For your safety,” says Chiyoh, who had once again trailed them. Will suspected as much, and remains still, but Alana's shoulders bunch and relax.

       “Is that so?” she tries to conceal the surprise in her voice from Chiyoh's sudden appearance, but fails.

       “Mister Graham's safety in particular.” He wonders if Alana is fooled by Chiyoh's emotionless exterior. The more she lingers, the less he believes it; she is not some mere hired driver, he realizes, but someone who clearly has a bond to the Count. Apparent in her obvious loyalty to him, and the shared trust between them: he has shared knowledge with her, Will's identity, that other employees are not privy to. In this short exchange, she exposes all this to him, though whether intentional or not is debatable. The night will reveal that and more, he's sure. Always does.

       “Thank you. We appreciate it,” says Alana, heart sitting in her voice.

       “Yeah. Thanks.”

       Another nod. “Enjoy your night.” She strides off, conscious to make noise now. Her silence had been deliberate. Perhaps she found their shock amusing. He would too, in her position.

       “I have no idea who that is,” Alana says, once Chiyoh's out of earshot.

       Will snorts. “You seem surprised. Are you and the Count that close?”

       Painted eyes stare down at them from the walls, he wonders idly how many of them are fakes or genuine pieces, which only adds to the unnerving atmosphere to the house. Alana, out of Chiyoh's presence, seems unfazed regardless. Perhaps he's being paranoid. Wouldn't be the first time. He shakes off the gloom and allows the clamour of the ballroom to draw him in.

       As if the ballroom had been contained within a bubble, crossing the thin line separating room from hallway swallows them in sound; all of a sudden, what had sounded like muffled chaos is now surround sound, loud and consuming. It takes all his willpower not to wince.

       “It's beautiful, isn't it?” Alana asks, rich with awe. She's not wrong: the ballroom is humongous, the ceiling as distant as the sky and dripping with chandeleirs, swathed in golden light. Everywhere that meets the eye has been touched by Midas, with accents of red and plum to balance it out. Around the edges, tables drowning in silk obeying the colour scheme are towering with decadent displays of food. Some trays are triple-tiered, filled with items he can't even describe. The sight of them bring no known food item to name. The heart of the room, though, and the height of extravagance, is the angel of ice. Its open eyes, heavenward and anguished, weep white-gold streams of champagne, which gather in its hands, palms open in supplication. Behind their wings, people become shapes, colours, abstract.

       “That's a word for it.”

       She shoots him a look.

       “It has it charms. He clearly knows how to make the most of his space.” Even he is, on some level, impressed by the sheer magnitude of it all, but with each sight, dread builds for he and the Count's inevitable meeting. What could a man, who indulges in the likes of this, really offer Will? Still, Alana clearly holds fondness for him, and places her trust in him. He, to the extent that he is able to, trusts her judgement on this, and so surrenders to it. “It's a bit loud.” Understatement of the century; people have clearly enjoyed the pyramids of wine and champagne, or the several waiters darting about, and it's clear in their noise levels.

       “It is.” She surveils the scene. “Wine?”

       “Just one.”

       “Speak for yourself.”

       She wraps her hand around his wrist and guides him effortlessly through the sea of people, so extravagantly dressed that they almost don't register as such in his mind. At first glance, they are nothing more than dolls, mirages, clockwork decorum timed to swirl and move as the music commands. Puppets pulled by strings of song. They arrive at a tower of wine, though find themselves utterly unprepared to deal with it. He eyes the crimson tower warily.

       “Allow me,” purrs a honey-voiced woman. Her hand snakes in between the two of them, parting them like a sea, then her body. She retrieves two glasses of wine with utmost ease and hands it to them, a cold smile on her lips as she gazes at them through her green and gold half-mask, feathers of varying emerald shades surrounding her hair like a crown. From what he can see, they match her eyes. She is a stunning, yet deeply unsettling, woman.

       “Thank you,” Alana's voice is steeped in gratitude, “those things are a nightmare.”

       “Quite the devil to get a hang of. It's been quite some time since we last saw each other, Doctor Bloom, but I dare say you've gotten ever the more beautiful since.”

       “I'd argue it's the mask,” Alana jokes, cheeks rosy from beneath the dripping crystals, “but thank you. You're quite the sight yourself.”

       “It's the wine.”

       They laugh.

       “How I've _missed_ you, Doctor Bloom. Dinner parties are so droll without you.”

       “You flatter me. Still, plenty to make up for now that you're back. How was your trip?”

       “Oh, the same as usual. Nothing I haven't said before. Besides, it appears you have something _much_ more interesting to talk about.”

       “Oh?”

       “Your _guest_ , Doctor Bloom,” she reminds, voice warm yet empty. Alana doesn't notice. Will stiffens under her acknowledgement, the way her eyes drag back to him; his temporary peace, existing under the radar, is snatched out from under him. “I don't think I've ever met you before.”

       “You haven't,” he says, before swallowing a mouthful of wine. “But my identity is none of your concern, Lady du Maurier. Count's orders.” A gnarled little smile plays at his lips.

       She is unfazed by this. Alana, however, is not. When she speaks, there's an undertone of horror. “ _Will_.”

       “Oh, it's quite alright, Doctor Bloom,” Lady du Maurier assures, ring finger—heavy with a gold-and-emerald ring—tapping against her glass, “I'm certain he meant nothing by it.” Her tone tells the opposite. “I should not have imposed on your privacy. Though, I can't help but wonder… you couldn't be Will Graham, could you?”

 _Shit_. She knows who he is. That explains her eerie aura. Her familiar name. “Ding, ding.” He swallows another glass of wine to push away his anxieties. “And you wouldn't be _Bedelia_ du Maurier, would you?”

       “Familiar with my work?” she asks. She attempts to hide it beneath a layer of ice, but he can clearly detect the genuine intrigue beneath it.

       “ _The Bride of Frankenstein_ in particular.”

       “I adore that piece,” Alana inputs. “Fascinating insight.”

       Lady du Maurier glows. “It is my _magnum opus_. Tell me, Mister Graham, what did you think of it?”

       He remembers reading the piece in the budding stages of his self-awareness, when he had become aware of just _what_ he was, and how much he differed from the world. He had devoured tomes and tomes galore on the subject. Lady du Maurier's among them. Even after all this time, her striking and unique subject matter still sticks with him. “It was an intriguing read. An entirely unique one. I've yet to read something else on the subject of equal calibre.” Despite his distaste of the woman, there is now a begrudging respect; the woman, unlike most who write on supernatural subjects, actually knows her shit. “Certainly adventurous of you, to explore that subject. I'm sure it was a magnet for controversy.”

       “Oh, _absolutely_. But I believe it was worth the risk, whatever harm it did to my reputation. I believe that matters of humanity's obsession, bordering infatuation, with the supernatural and the occult ought to be addressed. For as much as we vilify that world, we are, in many ways, just as guilty of adoring it. Many people were not pleased with this particular facet of themselves being explored.”

       “Any piece that provokes that kind of self-awareness often does explore the less pleasant aspects of ourselves,” Alana says, “and not many people, least of all in our community, are comfortable with that. I commend your bravery.”

       “Thank you for your praise. It's a high honour coming from the likes of yourselves. I am delighted to finally make your acquaintance, Mister Graham.”

 _I bet_. He can't say the same, so he continues drinking his wine, acknowledging it with the subtle tilt of his head.

       “That reminds me, Doctor Bloom, there is someone here I would like you to meet.”

       “Oh? Who?” Alana, once again, is taken off guard. She had clearly only come here with the intention of introducing Will to the Count. And attending a masquerade ball.

       “Are you familiar with the Verger family?”

       “How could I not be?” They are, after all, the biggest source of monetary support for hunters and experts alike. Realization dawns. “Oh, you want to introduce me to them?”

       “Oh, no. They _asked_ me to introduce you to them. Mason Verger is particularly impressed with your studies.”

       “I'd love to meet with them. I assume they have a representative here?”

       Lady du Maurier's mouth twitches with cold amusement. “The Vergers are representing themselves, tonight. They were eager to attend Hannibal's return masquerade. I can lead you to them right now, if you wish.” She places her, now empty, glass down.

       “I would love to but,” Alana's face angles to Will, “I don't think it'd be polite for me to abandon my partner for the evening.” Bringing Will to meet the Vergers is out of the equation: they're renowned for their anti-supernatural beliefs, especially Mason. It's the sole reason he, and solely he as it is no secret that his sister is powerless in the dynamic, donates so generously to those who seek to study and destroy all those who fall under its umbrella. Will included.

       “Ah.” Lady du Maurier's face shifts with something unreadable. “I believe that may not be a problem. Doctor Bloom, you remember my husband?”

       Alana turns, Will following alone, and their mutual gaze falls on a man of broad, tall stature; his face concealed by a non-typical half-mask, something far more befitting of _the Phantom of the Opera_ than a Venetian-style masquerade, yet the striking unique quality of it claims his admiration. “Of course I do! Hannibal, it's wonderful to see you again.”

       “The same to you, Alana,” he speaks, rich and accented, voice thick with real fondness. His gaze, maroon and amber-like in the light, fixates on Will. He steps forward, taking Will's hand in his. “Will, it is my utmost pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I've been looking forward to it for quite some time now.”


	4. The Phantom of the Library

“ **Y** ou must be the Count.”

      Will doesn't dare to linger too long on the Count's appearance, as strangely captivating as he might be, wanting to distance himself. His persona is carefully crafted: socially awkward, gruff, unfriendly. It wards off even the most benevolent, insistent personalities. Of course, it is not without its foundation of truth… nevertheless, he keeps his eyes on his own glass, staring into the red mirror of its surface.

      “Please, there is no need for such formalities. You are a guest of honour in my home, Will. I ought to be calling _you_ by a title.” _Yet you aren't_ , Will muses and drinks, gaze wandering but never truly absorbing anything it comes across. “Hannibal is fine.”

      He doesn't yet acknowledge it verbally, instead deigning to answer with a brusque nod. Alana swoops in before he can even begin to formulate a response. “I'm glad the two of you are finally meeting. If anybody can help you with your… predicament,” she lowers her voice, glancing around her conspiratorially, “Hannibal can.” The cadence of her voice returns to its default state. “He was my mentor, you know. Taught me everything I know.”

      Will quirks an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. “I had no idea.” _No wonder she's so eager to sing his praises._

      “You praise me far too much. I can't take credit for the intelligent woman you've bloomed into.” Will holds back a snort at the prepostorous pun, though Alana seems to glide right over it. Lady du Maurier _does_ , however, roll her eyes. Out of fondness? Or irritation? He shakes the idle wonder out of his mind; he has enough to deal with without piling someone's marriage, and possible marital conflicts, onto the mass. “You found your own path. I merely guided you through the fog when the time came.”

      Alana laughs, light as light itself. “Such a lyrical way of being modest.”

      “My husband is quite the poet, is he not?” Lady du Maurier sips at a fresh glass of wine, the drink staining her lips as she does so. The pink of her tongue glides over her lower lip, capturing whatever may have escaped.

 _'Pretentious_ ' is what he'd call it, but different strokes for different folks, and all that. Besides, Alana warned him in the car to be on his best behaviour. “He really is,” Alana agrees, “have you ever considered publishing anything, Hannibal?”

      “Only as passing flights of fancy. As much as I love it, I doubt I would ever be able to devote myself to it. I hardly find the time to settle down and sketch, much less write poetry, I'm afraid.”

      “My husband is a busy man, as you can imagine. He has everything _but_ time.”

      The Count smiles to himself as he sips from his champagne, which glows like ichor in the chandelier light, his wife following suit. Her expression does not have nearly as much mirth as his does, even despite the subtlety of his humour, but she retains solid eye contact throughout the act, like they're sharing some inside joke. It's deeply unsettling. Then again, witnessing successful social interaction always unnerves him on some level.

      “How unfortunate. Well, I hope that one day we will be witness a work of yours in some capacity,” Alana says, sincerity beaming off of her.

      “I'm sure you will.” Again, that smile. Unease gathers in the pit of Will's stomach, but what else is new? He drinks some of his wine. He might have to rescind his earlier comment about only one glass. “Ah, I believe our guests, the Vergers, are getting a little impatient. Shall I beckon them over?”

      “No, no, it's fine. Bedelia and I will go. You two enjoy yourselves.”

      “Same to you,” Will offers, not a mote of enjoyment in his voice. He watches as Alana and Bedelia meet with two figures—a woman in red and a man in white—before being swallowed up by the pulsing crowd. _And then there were two_.

      “And then there were two,” the Count remarks. Will freezes, before forcing himself to relax; he has become unaccustomed to acts of mere coincidence after his dealings with the supernatural. However such reactions are ridiculous. Will, of all people, would be able to tell if the Count were _anything_ of the sort. Nobody can hide what they are. As he has learned through experience. “Will, you seem uncomfortable.”

      “That obvious?” Not his politest response, but it's better than just flat out ignoring him. He moves to take another drink, only to find his glass is empty. “This isn't exactly my type of scene.” Remembering Alana's earlier warnings, he adds: “Not that it isn't an impressive one.”

      “Please, don't feel the need to censor yourself. I appreciate the honesty. And, as you are my guest—and a highly honoured one at that—your comfort is paramount. I was going to suggest we go to the library, considering the … sensitive subjects we will broach. Completely private, I assure you.”

      Honestly, the thought of going to a library with the man doesn't appeal to Will all that much, and had it only been a matter of social comfort, he would have declined the offer. However, he has a point with the privacy. The King of Swords murder still remains a mystery to the public, even the non-magic version that will inevitably be told to the masses has yet to be crafted. Considering the fact he's a John Doe still, Will doubts he's even listed as _Missing_. Still, he's not exactly eager to go wandering off with a stranger in a _Phantom of the Opera_ esque mask and a _cape_.“Hm...”

      “If I may sweeten the deal, I do have a selection of whiskies I keep in my library. You seem like you'd prefer that.” The Count's eyes flicker down to Will's empty glass and back up again, an impish smile teasing his lips.

      “You're right."

      “About the whisky?”

      “The _privacy_ , actually.” Will can't help but allow a smirk to play on his mouth. “But that's a plus.”

      “Ah. Of course. Come, I'll show you the way.” The Count steps forward to allow Will to shadow him, the throbbing crowds forcing him to be as close as a shadow; they are almost touching as they make their way through the crowds. Despite the intimacy, his gratitude outweighs the discomfort: the Count cuts through crowds like a hot knife through butter. If it weren't for the close proximity, Will would surely be eaten up by the crowds.

      He's begun to count his lucky stars that nobody has interrupted them or tried to talk to the Count when a woman in plum approaches, her dress far too young for her age. “Doctor Lecter!” the woman croons as she approaches, wielding a gaudy peacock feather fan.

      “Elenora,” the Count responds, purring in return. Though, Will notices, there's a distinct difference between the warmth in his tone now and prior, with Alana; this time, he has to inject it into his voice. Surely barely detectable to anybody else, but not to him. The Count's fondness is purely artificial. “How wonderful to see you. How are you enjoying the ball?”

      “Oh, it's _beautiful_. You have outdone yourself again!”

      “Words that I deem highly flattering, from one such as yourself.” Paltry, meaningless flattery, Will thinks to himself; the kind that comes from sycophants, leeches. He thinks of the little fish that follow around sharks, eating bacteria and infections so that they may be spared from the shark's jaws. He eyes the Count, and wonders if he is a shark. The thought blooms to life and is quickly plucked from the gardens of his psyche. No room for that, those nasty weeds of paranoia. Too many months, years, have been spent in isolation, the sepulchre of his own company, and in the darkness paranoia and fear have gathered like mould.

      “Oh, Doctor Lecter, you are _too kind_!” Elenora giggles in a way far too young for her age, fanning herself. “I do hope this ball marks a long-term stay? It would be a pity to lose you again! How long was it, since your last stay?”

      “Three years,” he says benignly with a small nod, “and I believe I will be here for quite some time. There are matters here that demand my attention.”

      “Three years!” she gasps. “An eternity, more like!” A slippage: something curls in her voice, some remnant of an accent – sounds Northern English, even. Just a curling, a teasing, nothing more, for she has rebounded back to her refined American tongue. Her eyes wander to Will, murky brown beneath her extravagant mask, entirely ordinary. “Oh, do forgive me—I hadn't noticed your friend! I am Elenora,” she extends her hand, palm down, as if expecting a kiss. Will just stares at it.

      The Count places his hand on hers and lowers it. “My apologies, Elenora, but my companion and I have business we must attend to.”

      Her shoulders sink with the heaviness of disappointment. “Oh, that's a shame. Well!” she perks up, adjusts her mask, the corset of her dress, “I do hope we'll make time to speak once your mysterious business has been dealt with!”

      “Of course,” the Count soothes, and Will desperately hopes that's a lie. “Now if you'll excuse us.” The Count's gloved hand seeks the small of Will's back and guides him off. Though a spark of surprise jolts through him, Will doesn't verbalize his shock nor recoil, least of all in front of Elenora. Rather, the guiding hand is somewhat a comfort. It appears the Count is one prone to physicality, a trait while unexpected is not wholly unappreciated; if it weren't for his subtle actions, Will's night would prove to be quite nightmarish. Once the heat of Elenora's gaze has faded away to nothing, Will turns to the Count and utters something so low as to only allow the two of them to hear.

      “You were lying, right?”

      The Count chuckles, a breathy chuckle. “How impolite of you, Will.” A beat of quiet, then: “I certainly hope I was.”

      Will snorts. “How impolite of _you_ , Count—no, _Doctor_ Lecter.”

      “Ah, you noticed.”

      “Wasn't hard. What kind of doctor are you?”

      They are exiting the ballroom now, through some door hidden in silk wall decor; the Count, Doctor, whatever, is silent as a shadow as he swiftly unlocks the door and ushers Will through. Music muffles and voices distort into vague sounds as the door shuts, submerging them in dense dullness and quieted sound; almost like being under water. “A psychiatrist, although I rarely find the time to actively engage in my career, not with my… _lesser known_ duties.” A pointed look. His supernatural research consumes most of his time, although he does not appear that bothered by it. Passion does that, Will supposes. “I once was a surgeon, though that was long ago.” Here, in the sea-like silence, as they delve deeper into the candlelit off-corridor, their words are louder, yet still soft.

      Will allows his eyes to roam the corridor rather than focus on the Count himself, absorbing his surroundings; they lack the masquerade decorations, which is a relief, for he was becoming quite sick of the colours and the lights. Rather, the hallway is dotted with the occasional painting, moreso landscape than portraiture, less intimidating than the oppressive gazes of painted eyes. Every now and then, there is a small table adorned with flowers, often red or deep purple blooms, and once the presence of candles fade, there are small lanterns affixed to the wall that emit similar light. Occasionally, there is an oak door, leading to who-knows-where; this house is _massive_ , and its mysteries enchant and terrify a portion of his mind, a portion he silences to voice his more demanding question. “You're a psychiatrist?”

      “You sound surprised.”

      Will shakes his head and suppresses his shock and the threat of discomfort. It's not so strange when he considers the overlap of interests that applies to supernatural experts and psychology; after all, the only thing more fascinating than a human mind is a _non_ human mind. As he knows all too well. He remembers, idly, how Alana once professed an interest in the career path, hence her initial avoidances of him, but ultimately dedicated herself to her studies in the arcane. “You don't seem like a psychiatrist.”

      The Count eyes him curiously, “I hope that's a good thing.”

      He responds with a mirthless laugh, lips twitching awkwardly. “It is.”

      “I imagine you haven't had the best experience with either of my fields of work,” he muses.

      “Why imagine? I'm sure proof is plastered all over the Internet.” Buried deep in the archives of the Tattler, or theorized about in some psychiatric journal PDFs, having never made to published status; _it doesn't matter, though, does it? It'll always be made public, somehow._

      “If that's the case, I doubt I have ever seen any _proof_. I confess, I'm an old soul. I avoid the internet whenever possible. So, I assure you, my opinions of you will be born only out of my experiences with you.”

      “Oh.” The Count's many subtle kindnesses feel, briefly, overwhelming: from the soft curve of his benevolent smile, to the warm dark amber of his eyes, to the accompanying touch to his shoulder. All of it feels alien and familiar, like deja vu. “Thanks.”

      “Of course.” His hand falls from his shoulder. “I hope I have not made you feel uncomfortable.”

      “No, you haven't.” The opposite, in fact, which is discomforting on its own. “Uh, so what do you prefer to be called—the Count or Doctor?”

      “Will, you are free to refer to me as Hannibal.” In the face of Will's stubbornness, the Count relents. “But, I prefer _Doctor_. It is better to be known by one's achievements than their family's, wouldn't you agree.”

      Will nods. “Doctor it is, then.”

      Doctor Lecter echoes his statement and stops in front of a door: it is like every other door, rich and oak and in perfect condition. “The library,” he introduces and tests the door handle—brass and faintly aglow in the warm light of the hall—and it gives, easily. The Doctor raises an eyebrow, faint as it is, at Will. “It appears it is occupied.”

      At first, a jolt of anxiety claims his body, making him rigid, before he forcibly punishes it into submission. “Oh, by who?” Perhaps Chiyoh? She had escaped into the shadows, and he does not recall seeing her Stygian avian attire amidst the golds, reds and plums.

      “Let's find out.” With a small push, the door opens and they step forward. Momentarily, Will forgets the mystery dweller, instead awed by the sheer immensity of the library: towering, as tall or taller than the ballroom, with each wall lined with books, old and new; leather-bound reds and browns possess the majority of them, each name indecipherable from where he stands. There is a desk to one area, with clawed golden feet, and a _quill_ atop it, as well as plush seats clearly from another era, yet they fit in perfectly with the Doctor's home, and their possible age does not detract from their clearly apparent comfort. His eyes roam the highest heavens of the library, scanning the top layers, finding the sheen of glass protecting them. There are ladders to the side, and a secondary floor, of sorts, separating the _too-high_ from the easily reached, so that the climb is not so daunting. Then he remembers himself, and his eyes are quick to locate any sign of life that is not him or the Doctor. There, his gaze befalls a feminine figure, obscured by her angle, though it is apparent by the rich honey blonde of her hair that she is not Chiyoh.

      “Oh, Ophelia,” the Doctor says, tone rich, “I hadn't expected to see you here.”

      Started by his voice, she turns, and one look at her face sends a headache surging through his forehead. It rocks the bone and pierces the brain, deep and penetrating. He presses his fingertips to his sinus and wills it to the back of his mind, teeth sinking into the tender flesh of his inner cheek and drawing blood, until the sharpness regresses into a painful, skull-wide ache. Will, however, is well-aquainted with these pains, and suffers through them without much visible sign—or so he hopes.

      Ophelia is round-faced and appears to be in her early twenties, and she stands to attention, the book she was reading shutting with a dull slap. She holds it as she approaches a few steps, but remains distant. She is attired in a white dress shirt, one with a high neck and sleeves that, while long, are ruffled at the lower shoulder, and a high-waisted skirt that flows with each movement. Her eyes flicker once to the Doctor and then to Will, widening somewhat and her lips drop open before quickly closing. “My apologies, I hadn't thought you'd be coming to the library. And if I knew you were bringing a guest, I would have stayed in my room.”

      “There's no need to apologize,” he soothes before turning to Will, “ah, let me introduce you. This is my daughter, Ophelia; Ophelia, this is Will Graham.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I update! My deepest apologies for all those I kept waiting. I appreciate you endlessly. I had aspired to keep consistent with an update schedule, but unfortunately life does not always agree. My schedule is shifting from a few days of work to four days a week (Mon, Tues, Thurs and Fri) as well as Wednesday nights being possessed by some duty, as well as a sudden surge in social life, which makes things ever more uncertain. I can't promise to stick to my prior schedule, but I promise I will remain dedicated to this project; even in my off-times, I spend a lot of time thinking of plot details and such.
> 
> If you want to have updates re: any interruptions, problems or positivity regarding this fic, please follow my Tumblr @ bedannigram! I will try to write all I can about it on there, as well as posting notices of updates as well so that you can remain up to date!
> 
> I love you all so very, very much! <3 And hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	5. Okay, Ophelia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal expresses concern. Will and Ophelia get a moment to speak alone.

Ophelia appears to be a nervous girl; her eyes flicker from the Doctor to Will, doe-eyed and tremble-mouthed, and her fingers anxiously brush, tap and flex around the leather-bound book in her hands. Despite her nervousness, she curtsies ever-so-slightly, and offers a smile, one that emphasizes the size of her eyes. The pain intensifies, a sharp throb that momentarily blinds him, before vision returns. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Graham.”

         “You too,” he says with an awkward nod, trying to stifle his pain. If she is bothered by his starkness, it is indecipherable amongst the rest of her anxieties.

        “I'll leave you two to your business, then.” With that, she sets about leaving, taking her reading with her.

        “Of course.” As she nears the exit, the Doctor calls her attention. “Oh, and Ophelia?” She stops immediately and turns to look at him.

        “Yes?”

        “I may not see you for the rest of the night. If not, please rest well.”

        “You too, father. Love you.”

        “And I, you.”

        Then, with a quiet click of the door, she is gone, and the pain from his head subsides to nothing. Abruptly, he is taken by exhaustion, a cold feeling crawling over his skin, vision blurring somewhat. “As you can see, Ophelia is not so adept with social situations,” Doctor Lecter chuckles softly, before turning to Will. All amusement and fondness drops quickly as he sees something Will cannot on his face, concern blooming. “Are you alright, Will?” Quickly, his hands reach for Will's shoulders in a steadying grasp, thumbs at his neck, one pressed against his pulse. It is strikingly intimate. “Your pulse is racing.”

        “I'm fine,” is his automatic response, yet a compulsion to be honest pushes him to continue, a compulsion he is not particularly keen on exploring right now, “I just… I need to sit down.”

        The Doctor guides him in his physical way, which Will must admit he is grateful for, for his legs are feeling weak with the bombardment of exhaustion, to one of the old chairs. It appears his eyes did not deceive him; it is beyond comfortable, sinking with his weight but not so much that its skeleton presses into him, plush and warm. If it is indeed old as its style suggests, it does not feel nor look it up close, for there is not a tear insight. He allows himself to sink entirely into the chair with a sigh, his spine thanking him.

        “Do you need water?”

        “No.” His mind is a paradox, a nightmarish one at that: on one hand, he vehemently rejects such compassionate caring, coupling it with pity and patronizing; on the other, he so dearly craves it, especially after he has grown touch-starved and, admittedly, _lonely_ after his submersion in isolation. Simultaneously hungry and purging, his voice comes out sharper than intended. For fear of insulting the doctor, which is an odd fear to have considering his personal track record of being an all round unpalatable person, he adds, voice softer with rough amusement: “I'll have that whisky you mentioned, though.”

        If Doctor Lecter is perturbed at all by his rudeness, it does not show. Rather, he appears amused, moving from his semi-crouched position to stand straight. “A wise choice,” he says, voice rich with humour. He is quick to retrieve the whisky from underneath his desk, bringing out the fine glass bottle; the liquid is like honey and its slight glow makes it all the more alluring, promising a far more enjoyable experience than the wine (not that the wine was bad, he muses, in fact it had been far better than whatever he drank during his time alone). Two clinks as some glasses are set on coasters, then the shudder and glow of a mini-fridge being opened and shut, the melody of ice being poured into the glass. Will focuses on these sounds as some attempt at mindfulness, shutting his eyes and trying to ward off the exhaustion and the beginnings of nausea. He inhales as long as it takes for Doctor Lecter to pour the first glass, holds for the length of the second glass, and exhales as it's nudged towards him. Will's eyes open slowly, readjusting to the library's warm light.

        He reaches for the drink almost sluggishly with a murmured thanks, and knocks it back. It's hot and cold, a welcome slap in the face to shock the majority of the exhaustion out of him. He straightens and licks his lips for any whisky he might have missed. “'s good,” he says with a nod. Doctor Lecter's drunk some of his as well, mouth rolling inwards to further appreciate the taste.

        “I agree. Whisky is not my usual drink of choice, but I have a certain fondness for this vintage.”

        “Why?” Another drink; why not? He needs it.

        “This particular whisky was created by my bloodline. It's the only one of its kind.”

        Will's eyebrow rises, gaze dropping to look at his gaze curiously. A strange feeling rises in his chest, something like shame, something like gratitude; he doesn't know why the Doctor would be so inclined as to share his rare drink with him, but he is thankful all the same. Hence why he doesn't let him know that he's almost certainly been lied to by whoever raised him, because the taste is incredibly familiar, most likely some name brand the Doctor wouldn't recognize due to his obvious wine-or-champagne preference.

        “My compliments to your bloodline, then,” is what he says instead, raising his glass. The Doctor does the same and they drink, a delicate sip to savour the flavour. Yes, definitely something he's tasted before; if only he could recall where.

        “Do you feel better?”

        “Uh, yeah.” He rubs at his eye with his free hand. “I don't know what happened. Must've been a head rush, or something.” Gaze sliding to peer at the Doctor, he finds that his expression is quite intense; something alight in his eyes, Will supposes it must be concern although strangely, it seems almost like _hunger_. Again, paranoia distorts, eats up, destroys. He ignores it once again.

        “Are you sure that's all? If you tell me, I may be able to help you.” With a small twitch of his lips, Doctor Lecter adds: “I am a doctor, after all.”        

        Will huffs a laugh, a one note thing. “Yeah. I guess you are. Uh, it was just – a headache. A brief one, very painful. Sharp.”

        “A migraine?”

        “Kind of, but the whole skull. Like something was crushing it. Or...” he frowns, fumbling for the right words, “…more like, something was trying to get out. Of my head. Trying to break free of my skull.” His mind, with its over-active imagination, helpfully provides him with the visceral mental image of his own skull fracturing to pieces, cracking open like an egg hatching; there it is, the ugly pink duckling of his brain, bursting free of its shell. Nausea rises, but it is a dull and familiar feeling. Too used to it, too used to gore, he absorbs it like a sponge. Violence is as innate to him as empathy, as living. He swallows the taste of sickness and re-adjusts his eyes, hoping he did not appear so distant and glazed as he felt.

        “A terrible pain. I can scarcely imagine. Is it gone now?”

        “Yeah, it's gone now. It uh, went away when O—a few minutes ago.”

        “Will,” the Doctor's voice, while soft, is rich with emotion, “you don't have to censor yourself around me. Consider this,” he gestures to the library, “a safe space.”

        “It's something strange,” he says grimly, though not without a tinge of amusement; what isn't strange about him? “And most likely crazy.” Another drink – the glass is half empty, and he moves it. Now that the exhaustion has been purged entirely from his glass, he feels the urge to walk around, to remain unstill. He feels like a sitting duck, though which predator threatens him, he can't guess. He highly doubts the Doctor would be in cahoots with Freddie Lounds. Something about him just _screams_ incompatible with Lounds. Although, to be fair, any _sensible_ person screams that.

        “I assure you, I have dealt with far stranger things than anything you can throw at me.” He leans back in his chair, opening his stance slightly, in a way that would almost be dominating if it weren't so vulnerable. _Come at me with anything you have; I am an open book,_ says his posture, _I am unafraid in the face of your oddities_. Bizarrely enough, it does make his thoughts seem smaller, less imposing, than they had felt prior; not enough that they are a pinprick, and never so much that his anxieties vanish to nothing, but it is a detectable influence.

        “I was fine until I saw Ophelia. Then, she turned and… it began. I felt like my skull was being devastated. There were moments where I could hardly see,” he inhales, his breath carrying the slightest shudder, “then she left… and it was gone.”

        The Doctor is leaning forwards now, glass laid on its coaster as his fingers lace together. For a moment, Will thinks he might be off-put by the strange admission, but finds instead that he is merely absorbed in his telling, not without a trace of what must be concern. He is not pitying, as Alana would be; he is not quietly questioning his logic, as Beverly would be; he is not maliciously listening for a trip up, as Freddie would. Not that he can deduct, anyway. “Did you feel anything else?”

        “Uh, tired.” He scrubs at his face. “Sick, too. Head full of white noise.”

        “Much like a prolonged head rush,” the Doctor muses.

        “Yeah.” Never one to dwell much on his own suffering, he quickly attempts to change the subject. “Uh, I'm better now though; it was probably a fluke. I'd much rather work.”

        “Mm… your avoidance of your own pain perplexes me, Will.”

        Will tightens, the scape of his shoulders hardening with tension. “I'm not avoiding anything,” he says, voice stiff as a corpse.

        “Aren't you?” he tilts his head, though the movement is so minute that even Will, with his infamous detection, is scarcely able to catch it. “It is perfectly normal to neglect your own needs in the face of a much larger issue. Your selflessness is admirable, although as a doctor, I must admit that my desire to see you well overpowers my awe at your ability to put yourself second.”

        He avoids eye contact, though this urge to look away is newfound and strange, utterly baffling and – because of such – utterly overwhelming. The Doctor's eyes are striking in their tenderness, the sheer penetrating quality of his gaze, as if he can peer into the very core of him, unlike anything he has ever witnessed. This, _this_ must be what it is like to be around _him_ ; why people marvel and shrink underneath his witchling gaze. Some foul concoction of guilt, pride and self-reflecting terror forms in his gut, a hardy globe of maladaptive mutated emotions. Even pride is cursed on his shoulders, for it never comes alone; no, if pride is the soil, self-loathing is the weed that blooms from it.

        “I'm fine,” comes his underwhelming response, oppressed beneath the weight of his discomfort.

        “Hm...” with a sigh, the good doctor aborts his attempt at getting Will to look after himself. “For now, then, let us do what we came here to do. However,” and with this, he insists on eye contact, “I insist that you report any discomfort or pain. Even if you consider it to be small. If not for yourself, then for me.” Will finds himself transfixed despite himself, giving an unsteady nod. In response, the Doctor offers a close-lipped smile, one that lights up his eyes. “Good. Now, let us proceed. Do you feel good enough to stand?”

        It takes a moment for Will to knock out of his minor trance, but he stands up, stomach warm with whisky. “Yeah. Yeah. Let's get to it, then.”

 

*

 

Doctor Lecter keeps his books on the uppermost level of his library, suspended above the world in nondescript covers so that they may not attract attention. They spent hours scouring tomes, though occasionally Doctor Lecter left him to read on his own, departing for short bursts of times with semi-apologetic, semi-cheeky smiles: _I am still the host of a masquerade, Will, in case you had forgotten_. Will assures him that it doesn't bother him in the slightest. If anything, the time to himself is fantastic for his thoughts. Not that he informed the Doctor of the latter; would hardly do well to offend the man with such numerous tomes, would it?

        It is one of those times, where the Doctor has re-entered the folds of the ball, no doubt victim to the attacks of Eleanor, or whatever she had been called, and her ilk. He wonders, as he flicks through ancient texts—this one a Celtic piece, focusing on the witches of northern Scotland and their methods—if Alana is angered by his isolation, or pleased by the fact he so willingly went with the Doctor. He doesn't fear that she's alone, far from it – she has the company of the Lady du Maurier, the Vergers, and Doctor Lecter himself. Surely, she'd be pleased. She must be.

        Will hopes she is.

        The door creaks, heralding the arrival of Doctor Lecter. He turns, words encapsulating his findings and thoughts burning on his tongue, only to find them turning to ash. It is not the figure of Doctor Lecter that awaits him, but rather his daughter, and the agonizing headache that she brings with her like a shadow. He wonders if his hiss of pain is audible, and he quickly fumbles for his glasses.

        “My apologies,” she is quick to say, eyes doe-wide, “I assumed you would have left by now. I just came to return my book.” When he takes too long to reply, she approaches, arms still wrapped around the book she took with her. As he forces his vision to clear with the assistance of his glasses, he catches sight of something stark and blue; not her eyes, but the sapphire and silver bracelet peeking through the white of her shirt. “Are you alright? You look in pain. Is something wrong?”

        The pain still bursts, though now a more fitting term would be _writhing_ , as if a thousand snakes comprised purely of pain were slithering around in his skull, trying to break free from its shell. Despite this, he attempts to offer a reassuring smile. “No, uh, just, uh, tired.”

        “Are you sure?” Each step is timid, though purposeful; almost paradoxical. She doesn't take her eyes off him. “You look pale.”

        “So do you,” comes his retort, and he isn't wrong; she's much paler than her father. In fact, she shares almost every trait with her mother: blue eyes, blonde hair, pale skin.

        “I'm just pale. You look sick.”

        “Thanks.” A sarcastic, but not unkind, smile twists one side of his mouth.

        “That's not what I meant,” she says quickly, but there's amusement threatening the tremble of her mouth. “Do you want me to get my father? Or my mother? They're doctors.”

        “I'm aware.” He scrubs at his eyes, not caring if he smudges his glasses. Not as if he actually needs them to see. “I'm fine. Your, uh, father'll be here soon, anyway. He's just socializing.” Which brings to mind: “Why aren't you out there?”

        She hugs her book tighter to her, but shrugs regardless. “Parties aren't my thing.”

        “Mine either.”

        “So why come?”

        “I work with your father.”

        “Really? I've never seen you before.” she tilts her head. He finds he can't look at her, otherwise the migraine splitting his skull becomes absolutely unbearable. He redirects his gaze to the whisky bottle, which becomes more and more tantalizing. “And he's never mentioned you before.”

        “It's our first time working together. I met him today.”

        “Oh. That makes sense.” She seems to notice what he's looking at. “Did you steal some of his whisky? I won't tell if you did,” she adds, “I get tempted to steal some too.”

        “Uh, no.” He can't help the little huff of a laugh at her admission. “He offered me some.”

        “That's weird,” she says, and before he can probe further, she addends: “do you like it? Is it good?”

        “It is, it's very good. Though,” and he doesn't quite know why he says this, except out of an instinct to indulge her, “if you _really_ want to try it, just try different store-bought whiskies.”

        “Why? It's not the same. I'm of age, you know. I can try any whisky I want. I want _that_ one.”

        He thinks for a moment, though his thoughts are foggy, covered with a haze of pain. Maybe that's why he says: “Don't tell your father, but… I think… I think it's store-bought.”

        Despite himself, he can't help but look at her. When he does, her eyes are bright, almost hungry. Anxiety remains, an unkillable beast, but it is not the only thing he sees anymore. “Why would he do that?”

        “I don't know. Maybe … Maybe I'm wrong. Yeah, I'm probably wrong.”

        Even despite his rescinding of his statement, she remains bright-eyed. “Why did you think it was store-bought?”

        “It's stupid. It just… tastes familiar.”

        “Familiar? That's impossible.” She stands, now, breaking the conspiring atmosphere. “It must just be similar. Father wouldn't lie to me. Family doesn't lie.”

        “Not to each other,” he muses, thoughts becoming more and more labyrinthian by the second. He feels as if a great and terrible sleep is fast approaching; like a foreboding cloud is spreading over his psyche.

        “Not to each other.” A pause befalls them. The air has become stagnant but the ache persists. Any moment now, his skull will shatter, he believes this with absolute certainty. Black and red stars burst into being in his vision, blotting out almost everything. “...Well, I best go to bed. Goodnight, Mr. Graham. Oh, and please don't tell father that I was down here. It's quite late, after all.”

        “Ah, goodnight.”

        His fingers rise to press into his eyes, and only when he hears the door click shut does he open them again, almost choking on the relief as all pain is wiped from his mind. He gasps for a few moments, like a man brought back from the brink of drowning, swiping his fingers across his damp forehead. As he returns to reality, he notices something strange.

        Ophelia did not return her book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took a while to write! admittedly, I had entirely different plans for this chapter, but it appears the masquerade arc still has me in its vice grip; besides, ophelia's character intrigued me too much to NOT write some one-on-one with will! i hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you did, a comment and kudos is beyond appreciated! currently, i am doing nanowrimo, so i have no idea how much time i will have to devote to this fic during november, but i have much muse for it, so trust that i'm writing as much as i can when i am able! 
> 
> if you're interested in keeping up to date with the writing process, regarding this fic or my others, i occasionally post little updates on my progress on my blog, @bedannigram on tumblr! feel free to follow, message, etc. <3


	6. The Storm Underfoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal unearth a possible theory.

It is in Ophelia’s absence that he realizes the weight of her presence; even once the Doctor returns from his duties of mingling, Will finds himself distant, vexed by the young woman. The two of them return to their studies, searching through the withered pages of old tomes for any sort of logical - as logical as anything could be, in this sorcerous world, he supposes - explanation for the gruesome tableau, but his thoughts are elsewhere. He thinks of the young Ophelia’s round face, far more youthful than her mannerisms suggest. Her manner in particular strikes him; she had shifted so easily, as if wearing different skins, in the separate companies of Hannibal and Will together, and Will alone, and yet neither skin felt disingenuine… and Will would most certainly know if any aspect of her persona were an untruth: he is sensitive to dishonesty, certainly due to the curse of empathy. She cannot fool him easily, and yet the doubts in his mind prompt him to consider that perhaps she  _ had _ . 

     Which only worries him further, for surely such behaviour warranted an internal revulsion to such a character--dishonest folk were never the sort he could associate himself  with, even before the debacle that sent him into hiding--and yet he feels nothing but the dull ache of fondness for the stranger. 

     The Doctor must have seen it on his face, this many-layered distress, for he spoke: “Will, are you feeling alright?”

     Will blinks, as if removed from a trance. “Yes. Sorry.”

     “I understand that it is getting quite late. Do you wish to retire this to tomorrow, and sleep on what we’ve found?” The Doctor quirks his head, not a single strand of hair moving with it, his expression one that could easily be misread as stoic. There is compassion there, somewhere, in the dark of his eyes. 

     Will does not notice the eye contact, instead his mind is alive with a thousand thoughts. The foremost one, defeating his pre-occupation with the girl, is that they have not found much of anything at all. In the beginning of their search, they mentioned some bit of lore every now and then, as a superficial theory, but the process then proved to do nothing, and the hollowness of their statements more draining than bolstering. So they went to silence. Now that is all they have: the ghosts of silence. 

     “No. We’ll stay up.” Remembering himself, he corrects himself. As cold as he might be on occasion, there’s no need to be harsh to someone who has devoted his time, at his own ‘welcome home’ masquerade, to help out Will with a case. That’s just heartless, and Will is certainly not a man who lacks heart. “I mean, I’ll stay up. If you want to go back to the party or, I don’t know, sleep, then you should.” 

     “Nonsense. You are a guest in my home, and it would be devastatingly rude to leave you to work alone while your peers drink and dance, doors away. I could not bear the thought of joining them, and leaving you to the shadows, for more time than I must.” 

     “...Thank you, Doctor Lecter,” says Will, stiffness in his voice, because he doesn’t know how to deal with the kind words. Kindness is foreign to him. As alien as the dark of the sea. “Then we’ll continue.” A beat, and to return himself to a more focused state, he adds: “Should probably lay off the scotch for a bit.”

     The Doctor chuckles, a soft, breathy sound. “Perhaps. We shall have a celebratory drink after, once we have found what we need.”

     Will smiles. A small thing, but present nonetheless. “Of course.” They continue reading, nothing but the gentle sounds of paper against paper, until the Doctor speaks.

     “Something on your mind, Will?”

     “Only what you expect,” he replies, without looking up from his work. He does not wish for any further conversation on what strange happenings went on in the dark realm of his psyche, and so he focuses further on his research. How strange it is, that he finds the perfect diversion: a real, possible theory. “Doctor,” he says, voice alert with excitement, all tiredness being eaten by this growing hope. 

     “Yes?” Already, the Doctor joins him, ghosting behind his back. If the Doctor breathed strongly, they would be touching, chest to back, but Will hardly registers the proximity. “You’ve found something.”

     “ _ Ascension ritual _ ,” Will reads from the handwritten pages, whose scripts are faded with time. He searches for his glasses and dons them, not out of avoidance for once, but to genuinely better his vision, though not by much. It is beneficial all the same. “A brutal ritual to appease and ascend to…” he squints, unable to make out the scripture; not a matter of fading, but sheer illegibility, “...I can’t make that word out, but it goes on to describe a ritual--involving dark magic and flesh idols--in… frantic detail.”

     “Someone was in a hurry,” the Doctor notes. Will can’t explain the chill that snakes its way down his spine. 

     “So it would seem.”  _ But why _ ? “It’s the closest descriptor we’ve found that matches the tableau.”

     The Doctor is by his side now, although the overlap of their bodies is not lost completely; arms inches apart, their hands hung heavy beside each other. “May I?” the Doctor angled his head so that his eyes search Will’s face. Through the excited haze of unearthing some theory, Will barely recognizes the contact. He steps aside, however, to allow the Doctor better room to read.

     “ _ Ithaqua _ .”

     “What?”

     “ _ Ithaqua _ , that’s what it says.” The Doctor shoots him a sly smile. “I have a lot of experience reading illegible writing; I was a doctor, once.” 

     “Ha.” A fleeting smile flits onto his lips and vanishes again; an acknowledgement of the humour. He returns to the matter at hand. “Do you recognize it?  _ Ithaqua _ ?”

     “With some vagueness. It strikes a familiar chord, protruding from my memory like something that demands to be remembered, but I can’t recall it in any logical, useful shape. Leave it to rest with me, Will, and I will surely have something of worth for you tomorrow.” 

_      Tomorrow _ ? Dissatisfaction moves his face. 

     “I assure you Will, you have done plenty this evening. You have done more than anyone has. You should rest.”

     “You did as much as I did.”

     “But even I neglected my duties to entertain.”

     “That’s what you were supposed to be doing.” Guilt joins the dissatisfaction. He has wasted the good Doctor’s night, his welcome party, and for what? A word that neither can understand. A vague theory. 

     The Doctor places a hand on his shoulder. The warmth is rich and immediately soothing. When he attempts to establish eye contact, Will finds himself accepting it; he does not even angle his glasses to create a barrier. “Will, do not feel guilt for accepting my help. I found your company more enjoyable than any blushing drunk.” 

     Without words, Will stands as the Doctor removes his hand. 

     “I’m afraid, however, that with my profession, I could not allow you to work any longer tonight. I take it the masquerade is not your… scene?”

     “No offense meant, Doctor Lecter. Socializing… mingling…  _ dancing _ . It’s not my area of expertise.”

     “A pity. Then will you head home?”

     Will stretches; the crack of bones, the stretching of muscles pulled taut by stress, the release of tension… it all pulls a sigh-groan from his lips, and as his arms are suspended in the air, he checks the inside of his wrist for time. Christ, the Doctor is not exaggerating when he insists on it being late. The fact the masquerade will continue is beyond bizarre to him, but he will bite his tongue. “Yeah. That’s what I’ll do.”

     “I’ll have Chiyoh take you home.” 

     “Oh, no, you don’t--”

     “Nonsense, Will. It would be my pleasure.”

     There seems to be no use in fighting it. “Alright,” he gives in, shrugging. The Doctor answers with a small smile, and they begin to walk.

 

* * *

 

 

The masquerade is still raucous despite the late hour (perhaps made more so  _ by _ the hour, as it seemed the nighttime brought out wildness in even the tamest of folk), and as they approach, the sound of the ball threatens to destroy the walls separating them. Will slows, already dreading entering. He has taken off his glasses and donned his mask, but feels no comfort in it.

     “They’ll hardly notice us.”

     He doubts that is true. He moves anyway.

     The door opens: light is re-introduced to Will’s world, and it is intrusive and violent in its return. He blinks until he has gotten used to the bright golden world of the masquerade, and enters it completely. Around him, the noise is loud, near suffocating, but he trains his focus on one goal:  _ leave _ . Everything fades, then, until it is like being underwater. The Doctor steps in front of him, as if hiding his body. Will figures it doesn’t work, as eyes are drawn to them, regardless. It doesn’t help that, as the host of such a grandiose ball, the Doctor dresses the part. No matter how subdued Will’s personal aesthetics may be, attached to the Doctor he is the shadow of the sun; he is bold because he is not, in comparison. What a tragedy it is. 

     Will frowns as familiar and unfamiliar figures alike swarm, the most familiar being that bizarre peacock woman with the shrill voice, and dreams of being able to turn himself into shadow. For all he loathed the magic in his blood, he sometimes wonders if it is only because it fails to serve his  _ actual _ desires. Drunken murmurs, enthusiastic in tone although the words are lost to him in his state of unfocus, surround him like a warbled song. To his relief, faces more familiar--and welcome--than the Elenora woman approach: the lovely Alana, the Verger woman he had seen before, and the unearthly Lady du Maurier. 

     “Will,” Alana says, eyes lighting up as she sees him. She holds her mask in her hands, her cheeks wine-flushed. “I was wondering where you went off to. You’ve been gone for  _ hours _ .”

     “Duty called,” he replies, but he can’t help but relax in her presence. The woman beside her, soft-faced, dark-haired and equally as beautiful, eyes him. There’s no anger there, no deep hatred; only curiousity. He is not soothed. Curiousity can be just as dangerous.

     “Will Graham,” she says, green eyes feline in their inquisitiveness, “I’ve heard a lot about you.” She extends her hand.

     So as to not insult her--God knows what her brother could witness--he meets her hand. “I could say the same to you, Margot Verger.” Alana eyes him, eyes her, eyes darting     between the two. She appears to be holding something back, but he has no idea what she might say.

     “I’m sure you could.” They part. He avoids looking into her eyes; she does not afford him the same luxury. He regrets removing his glasses. “Doctor Bloom speaks very highly of you.” Her eyes dart behind him. He assumes to the Doctor, as she follows with: “How do you know Count Lecter?”

     “Work.” Even without a crowd of nonbelievers behind him prompting his secrecy, he would be blunt. He does not want to talk too long to a woman who advocates for his kind’s culling, be it indirectly or not. 

     Something in her jade eyes glints. “How interesting.” She smiles, red-mouthed.

     Will doesn’t care enough to ask her the same; he just wants to go home. He turns to the Doctor, shutting Alana and the Verger girl out. 

     “Doctor Lecter.”

     Instantly, he has the Doctor’s attention; he shifts, eyes meeting his through his dramatic mask. Unfortunately, he also has all of the Doctor’s little group’s attention also. He doesn’t know what to say. He didn’t plan that far.

     “Ah, how rude of me. I shall escort you out.”

     “Nonsense, Hannibal!” chimes Elenora, her voice thick with drink, “stay, do not leave. I’ve had enough of your absence. You’ve been with your friend all night.” She pouts, and it looks quite uncomfortable on her face. “And why not let your friend stay too? We’ve barely spoken.” 

     “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” 

     “Oh,  _ Hannibal _ …” 

     “Darling,” Lady du Maurier speaks up, suddenly, as if sensing the storm that threatens to break, “how about I escort your friend while you keep the lovely Elenora entertained?” She stares only at the Doctor, and he stares back. The moment is electric; Will feels like an intruder.

     Clearly, Elenora does not.

     “What a  _ wonderful _ day. Bedelia, you never fail to enchant us with your genius. Hannibal, isn’t that lovely?”

     “Quite.” Will wonders if he’s the only one who can hear the strain of tightness between otherwise perfectly pleasant tones. “In that case, Elenora, let us dance and talk, and speak of your life; I’m sure there’s a great many things I’ve missed.”

     “Ha! An understatement,” Elenora cackles, and takes him by the hand. The Doctor does not cast a look back. The rest of the group dispels bar he and Lady du Maurier, and even Alana and the Verger woman have disappeared into the night. 

     He turns to Lady du Maurier. She has the most curious expression. “Shall we walk, then?”

     “Let’s.” He restrains the  _ please _ that threatens to drip off his mouth in desperate anguish, so tortured by the scene. 

     They walk, side by side, in quietude for a moment. “It’s a pity you have to leave so quickly.” For all she must have drank, she is perfectly poised. A woman who can handle her liquor, and tremendously so. It doesn’t even show on her face.

     “I’ve been here for hours.”

     “Only in the most technical terms. You haven’t danced once, or drank, or drawled.”

     “Oh, I’ve drank.” The scotch from earlier still hazes his mind, a thin mask over his thoughts; nothing too troubling, but he is certainly not as clear of mind as he would like to be, especially not in the presence of such an unsettling woman. “I didn’t come here to dance or… drawl.”

     “No. You came here to meet my husband. What do you think of him, Will?” They exit the ballroom, into the hall of painted eyes. There are a few tousled folk seeking privacy for their PG-13 gropefests. None so close as to overhear them. 

     She’s caught him off-guard; more so because he himself doesn’t know how to verbalize his feelings about the man. “He’s an interesting man, Doctor Lecter. His insight is helpful and unintrusive.”

     “He is the most interesting man. I believe nobody possesses a psyche to equal his.”

     “Not even you?”

     “Not even I. But marriages are never about equality, Mister Graham. They are about balance. It is what separates passionate, explosive affairs with the solemnity of life-long marriages. Do not misunderstand me: I could not live without my husband. He enrichens my life. But passion, desire, equality of the natures… these are not things I need. Do you understand?” She looks at him, cold and curious, as they step out of the threshold of the manor. The night is brisk, far separated from the warm density of the masquerade, all the heat of the wine and the flesh; he feels startlingly real, here, in the chill. “I will interpret your silence as a positive.” 

     In truth, he doesn’t care much at all about what she’s saying. 

     The path crackles beneath his feet. He is walking on a storm. 

     They stop at a car, sleek and long. Will can’t tell if it’s the one he arrived in; in the dark, everything is night-touched. “Ah, it seems there is no driver prepared yet. No need. I’ll send one, you get comfortable.”

     “Thank you, Lady du Maurier.” Is the stiffness noticeable in his voice? If so, she does not comment. She looks at him, with her green eyes through her half-mask, and she seems unreal in this setting. Like she should only exist in the faerie-like realm of the masquerade. In the dark, she is silver and ivory. 

     “It is my pleasure, Mister Graham. Both to meet you and escort you. A pity we never spoke more. There is no doubt in my mind that you, too, are interesting, for more reasons than you’re aware.” She steps close, so that they are inches apart. Frozen, Will stands, unknowing of how to react. All internal scripts, plans, fail; the possibilities of her intentions are too uncomfortable to truly realize. “Perhaps moreso than my husband. I believe it is incredibly dangerous for you to come back here, Mister Graham.” Then: the unspeakable, unthinkable.

     She rises, not much due to the length of her heels, to meet his lips; she tastes of fruit-rich wines, of oaky scotch, of fresh lipstick and the faint traces of perfume. She is plenty initiative. Her hand presses against the side of his face with an almost possessive pressure, before falling. She steps back, as if nothing has happened. He is still, wordless.

     “I would advise you never come back here.” The ghost of a cold smile. “Don’t you agree? The door is unlocked. Sit, and I will retrieve a driver. Enjoy what luxuries you can, while you can.”


End file.
